


Too Close To Holmes

by lindor1306



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Cutting, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Eating Disorders, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindor1306/pseuds/lindor1306
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donovan goes to Sherlock to call him in on a case Lestrade is desperately trying to protect him from. Warnings inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tell Lestrade I'm Going To Kill Him

The call came at nine o'clock at night, just moments after Dr John Watson returned to 221b Baker Street, loaded down with Tesco bags.

"You could help with this, you know!" He glared at Sherlock, rolling his eyes as he walked past the detective and into the kitchen.

"I know." The detective replied, not even looking up from his book. "Too busy."

"Busy?" John repeated, gaping incredulously at the detective. "You're reading Harry Potter, Sherlock. Reading a children's book is not what I'd call busy!"

"You told me to read it." Sherlock said. "Although it's painfully obvious what's going on."

John sighed, standing up straight after putting the new bottle of bleach under the sink. "Go on then. Impress me."

"Well." Sherlock told him, waving the book at his flatmate. "It's clearly Professor Quirrell trying to steal the stone. He was at Diagon Alley the day the bank was broken into."

"So were lots of people."

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed. "But there was no reference to him wearing an odd-smelling turban during his first encounter with Harry. Therefore, something went wrong, and somehow the turban is magical, or possessed, or hiding something. He's being watched after his failure to steal the stone. Harry and Ron encountered Quirrell outside the third floor corridor, where the stone is no doubt hidden. He was the one to inform the school of the troll. He's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, no doubt he'd know all about dark creatures like that. My bet is that he let the troll in to create a diversion. And I'm certain he was the one cursing Harry's broom. Hermione knocked him over, breaking his eye contact, on the way to set fire to Snape. Now Snape, what about Snape? He certainly seems more the type. But no. He obviously has some kind of dark history. Dumbledore would never allow him into the school unless he could be absolutely certain that he is trustworthy. Clearly he's working for Dumbledore, trying to redeem himself, by protecting Harry and stop Quirrell getting the stone, and that's how he injured his leg. Trying to stop Quirrell getting past the dog. And his hatred of Harry? Probably a childhood grudge against his father. Not to mention the fact that he was in love with Harry's mother."

John gaped. "How can you possibly know all that?" He asked, walking up to Sherlock and glancing over his shoulder at the page. "You're only up to chapter twelve! How do you even know it is the stone?"

"Please." Sherlock said dismissively, rolling his eyes. "We were told right at the beginning that Flamel was the only maker of the Philosopher's Stone. Not to mention the title of the book. 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone'. Obvious, really."

John's mouth fell open, and, as Sherlock's phone began to ring, he found himself still lost for words as he watched the detective stand up to answer it.

"Donovan?" Sherlock asked, switching the phone onto loudspeaker and placing it carefully on the table while he searched for his scarf, looking confused. "You never call me."

"Whatever." Donovan snapped, clearly agitated at having to call Sherlock. "Listen, Freak, we have a case we need your bloody help with."

"I see." Sherlock said, smirking. "And why hasn't Lestrade called me himself?"

"No idea." Donovan said. "It's the fourth recent case like this with no leads. And we think it's linked with similar unsolved cases stretching back twenty-five years. If it's not linked it's a very good copy"

"Murder?" Sherlock asked, pulling his coat on.

"No." Donovan said. There was a brief hesitation, and John could hear the sound of crying in the background. "Child abuse."

"Child abuse?" Sherlock repeated, standing up straight, his coat hanging forgotten in his hand. "Tell me more."

"'Tell me more'?" Donovan repeated, sounding disgusted. "Even you couldn't get off on a case like this."

"Sally, shut up!" Sherlock snapped. "Just tell me what's happened."

"Eleven year old boy." Donovan told him. "Found in a garage not far from his school. He'd been raped, and the number 23 carved into his back. He's been abused over more than a year, but won't tell us who his abuser is."

"Can't." Sherlock corrected, shaking his head and pulling his coat on. "He can't say who his abuser is because he doesn't know. Are you still at the scene?"

"Yeah." Donovan said. "What d'you mean he doesn't know who his abuser is? He was abused for a year."

"Doesn't matter." Sherlock said, grabbing the phone off the table. "We're on our way. Just text me the address and tell Lestrade I'm going to kill him."


	2. Number 23

It was an ordinary garage on an ordinary housing estate, only standing out because of the lines of police tape blocking it from public access, and the number of pale, serious-faced police officers standing around outside.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Lestrade asked as John followed Sherlock through the police barriers.

"I was called." Sherlock replied, glaring angrily at the DI. "Even Sergeant Donovan had the sense to realise you needed me. The question is what the hell are you doing trying to keep me away from this case? Is the victim still here?"

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, chewing his lip nervously. "Look, Sherlock." He said. "I really don't think you should be on this case." Sherlock just looked at him, one eyebrow cocked expectantly. Lestrade sighed. "He's in there with Donovan."

Sherlock nodded, waltzing past Lestrade into the crime scene.

Sergeant Donovan was standing in the corner of the room, talking to Anderson, while a small, dark-haired boy sat on a chair behind her, staring blankly into space.

"Ah, the freak's here!" She said, a look of almost relief crossing her face.

Sherlock ignored her, striding over to crouch in front of the victim, a sharp snap of his fingers jolting the boy out of his daze. John nervously chewed his fingernail, watching as his flatmate stared thoughtfully into the boy's eyes, waiting for the inevitably inappropriate and potentially traumatising comment. To his surprise though, it didn't come.

"Have they given you painkillers?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed, before nodding in satisfaction when the boy indicated that they had. "What's your name? How old are you?"

"Stephen." The boy replied after a moment, his dead eyes seeming to stare straight through Sherlock. "Stephen Matthews. I'm ten. It's... it's my birthday tomorrow."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock told him, lowering himself down to sit cross-legged on the floor. "I'm not going to bother asking if you're ok. That's pointless. You know what's happened to you. Of course you're not ok. What happened?"

"Same as usual." Stephen told him. "He grabbed me on the way home from school. Put a bag over my face. Then he dragged me in here and... and he... he..."

"I know." Sherlock said, sighing deeply. "No need to tell me any more. Is there anything you can tell me? Anything you noticed? Any smells? Anything like that?"

"Toothpaste." Stephen said simply, seeming to really see Sherlock for the first time. "He smelled like toothpaste, or chewing gum or something. A bit minty, you know?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, his lips pursed. "I know what you mean. What about tastes. Could you taste anything?"

Stephen hesitated, his pale cheeks flushing with sudden colour. "It tasted like rubber."

Sherlock's eyes fell shut, and he pinched the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "What did he cover his face with?"

"One of them masks." Stephen told him. "You know the Iron Man masks they brought out with the second film? One of them."

"Ok." Sherlock said, standing up and leaning over, placing a hand on Stephen's shoulder. "Thanks. You've been great."

Sherlock turned around, trying to walk away from the boy, but a question stopped him.

"What's going to happen to me, Mr Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared down at the boy, apparently lost in thought. Finally, he crouched down again in front of him.

"You're going to struggle." He said bluntly. "You're going to have an awful time trying to get over this. You'll be scared, bitter, angry – God, you'll be so angry – you'll blame yourself and everybody else. It'll take years – maybe forever, I don't know, you're a normal human being – but eventually you'll accept it. You'll realise it wasn't anything you or your family did that caused this. It was a sick fucker of a man who probably had issues with his father who decided to make himself feel like more of a real man by exerting his power over people who aren't old or strong enough to stop him. You'll never get over it, but you'll accept it and live with it. And there'll be times, oh there will be so many times, when you see and hear about things like this, when you'll feel yourself getting angry, and you'll want to do whatever it is you did to help you cope before you came to term with it. You'll want to smoke sixty cigarettes, pepper your skin with burns and cuts, stick your fingers down your throat, test how much cocaine you can inject before your brother has to take you to get your stomach pumped. You'll want to do all of this, but you won't, because the fucker is NOT GOING TO WIN THIS TIME!"

Sherlock yelled angrily, jumping to his feet and grabbing a stunned Lestrade by the arm and dragging him back over to Donovan, Anderson and John.

"It's him." He said simply, waving his hand at John to tell him to start taking notes.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade said, watching Sherlock nervously. "Maybe you should leave this one to us."

"Of course I'm sure." Sherlock snapped, pacing in circles around the group. "And from now on I will just ignore you any time you decide to try to pull me off this case."

Lestrade huffed angrily, looking troubled, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Right," Sherlock shouted, continuing to pace, his coat flapping dramatically behind him. "Anderson, no point looking for any DNA whatsoever. This guy's smart. His entire body is shaved, head to toe, so no hair is left anywhere on the scene. He covers his face. This time he used an Iron Man mask. Very clever. Tens of thousands of them have been sold across the UK a part of the film's marketing campaign. Christmas was only three weeks ago, so sales of Iron Man masks will have been sky high. No-one will remember a single sale. Funny how times change. Back in '89 it was Michael Keaton's Bat Man, now it's Robert Downey Jr's Iron Man. Paedophiles do love a masked superhero. Anyway, he used a condom, even when he forced the boy to perform oral sex, so there won't be any semen anywhere in the area to identify him by. No fingerprints either – this guy always wears gloves. The only skin he leaves uncovered is the penis he's using to rape young children."

"But how could the kid not know who abused him?" Donovan asked, looking confused. "You said he didn't know."

"Stephen said it himself!" Sherlock shouted. He always grabbed the children from behind, and immediately placed a black bag over their faces. They couldn't see him. All there is to identify him by is the smell of peppermint and the fact that he's at least fifty years old."

Sherlock continued his frantic pacing, scratching absently at his collar bones and ignoring Lestrade as he repeatedly called his name.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice finally reached a frantic level, and the detective span around to face the older man.

"WHAT?"

"I'm not going to take you off the case." Lestrade said calmly, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I'll give you all the information you need."

"Then what?" Sherlock demanded.

"You need to calm down." The DI said. "Look at your fingernails."

Sherlock looked down, and all of his tensely held breath left him in one quick 'whoosh'. His fingernails were covered in blood, where he had frantically scratched repeatedly through the skin between his own sharp, skinny collar bones.


	3. A Perfected Act

John woke the next morning to the sound of shouting from downstairs, and so, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs to investigate.

Lestrade was standing in the living room, hands on his hips, watching as Sherlock pinned picture after picture onto the walls. Staring down at them from above the fireplace were twenty-three photos of young boys backs, all with a number carved, bloody and ugly, into the skin, from 01 to 23, with dates scribbled onto the corner of each picture in Sherlock' messy scrawl. A quick glance told John that the date of the first photograph was January 5th 1989, the last dated January 15th 2011.

"Sherlock, you can't seriously be planning to investigate this!" Lestrade growled. "This is insane!"

"Of course I am!" Sherlock snapped, stepping back to investigate his work. "There's something I'm missing. Something I've been missing all this time."

"What are you missing?" John asked, stepping into the room and surveying the pictures on the wall.

Sherlock glanced at him, before turning his gaze back to the photographs.

"There has to be a reason for the timing of the attacks." Sherlock said, pulling on his hair in frustration. "Why does he always carry out the final attack the day before the victim's birthday?"

"Probably because he's a sick bastard." Lestrade replied shortly. "His sick idea of a birthday present."

"Yes." Sherlock replied. "I think the 'Happy Birthday' remark made that much obvious."

"Happy birthday?" John repeated, sitting down on the sofa. "What 'Happy Birthday'?"

A brief moment of silence followed this question, with Lestrade looking tensely at Sherlock.

"That's what he said to his first victim." Sherlock replied finally. "When he was... finished."

"Christ, Sherlock." Lestrade exclaimed. "Seriously, you can't be serious."

"For the thousandth time, I am perfectly serious." Sherlock snapped. "I'm doing this."

"Fine!" Lestrade finally caved. "Fine, if you insist. But I'm warning you now, Holmes, if I get the slightest whiff of shit hitting the fan, one tiny hint of cocaine, or morphine, or heroin, or whatever else you can get your hands on, losing all future work with the police will be the least of your worries."

Sherlock stared for a moment, a multitude of rare emotions flickering across his eyes. "I'm clean." He replied after a moment. "This isn't going to change that."

An hour later, Sherlock still hadn't moved from his place, staring up at the photos. John was sitting at the table, drinking from a mug of tea and reading case reports from the previous cases.

"Why's this name blacked out?" He asked after a moment, holding a file out to Sherlock. "All of the other files contain the victims' names. This one's been blanked out."

Sherlock reached out to take the file and flicked it open, his eyes skimming over the words on the page. "Standard procedure." He replied after a moment. "If the victim's a police officer or works closely with the police the names will be blanked out of most files. Confidentiality."

"Right." John replied, taking the file back and watching as Sherlock wandered back to the wall of photos and plucked the first victim's picture from the wall. "Well, I'm going to go talk to some of the other early victims, since number one's a no-no." Sherlock nodded absently, staring down at the picture. "Try to eat something, eh Sherlock?"

"Not hungry." the detective replied. John just nodded, standing up and grabbing his coat. He hesitated briefly at the door, looking worriedly at Sherlock's dead eyes, before turning and heading off to make some unpleasant visits.

It was several hours later when John once again let himself into 221b Baker Street. His feet were aching, his head was aching, and he had managed to obtain absolutely no new information.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he got back, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in thought.

"Complete waste of time." John huffed, strolling into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. "I learned nothing."

"Didn't think you would." Sherlock replied, opening his eyes to glance up at his flatmate. "Pass me another file."

John nodded, grabbing a file from the table (date 18th June 1998, Victim number 10) and passing it to Sherlock. As Sherlock reached out with his left hand to take the file, though, the doctor's eyes were drawn to a red stain on the inside of his sleeve.

"Sherlock." John said, reaching out to grab his arm. "Is that blood?"

"What?" Sherlock replied, glancing down at his sleeve. "Oh. Yes. I... er... cut myself making lunch."

"You cut your forearm making lunch?" John said, staring thoughtfully. "Sherlock, you never eat on cases." Sherlock glared up briefly before looking back at the file in his hand, but didn't respond to the comment. "What really happened?"

"I'm not using again." Sherlock said dismissively. "That's all that matters."

"Are you saying you cut yourself?" John cried. "Deliberately?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Don't you see, this guy is too good!"

"What do you mean, 'too good'?"

"Well he's left us nothing!" Sherlock shouted. He leaves no fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses worth a damn. He hasn't even spoken to his victims since –"

Sherlock froze, his eyes shooting to stare widely at the first victim. "Oh, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid Sherlock."

"Of course?" John asked. "Of course what?"

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock cried, grabbing the photo off the wall and waving it in the shorter man's face. "It's so backwards it's obvious. Normally, with serial killers or serial anything, you're waiting for the killer to make a mistake. But this guy doesn't make mistakes. He's perfected his act."

"So how does that help us?" John asked, trying to connect the pieces Sherlock seemed to link with such ease. "You just said he's perfected his act. That leaves us with nothing."

"No!" Sherlock said. "Because people who manage to perfect things always do it by learning from their mistakes. He's already made his mistake! He made it on the 5th of January 1989! He gave us everything we need."

"What?" John exclaimed, still confused. "What did he give us?"

Sherlock grabbed John by the arms, grinning manically into his face. "His voice!" He said. "He gave us his voice!"

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs suddenly drew the pair's attention, and they span around to see Lestrade running into the room.

"There's been another one." The Detective Inspector said. "Number twenty-four. Not far from where we found Stephen Matthews."

"Where was he found?" Sherlock asked, standing up excitedly.

"A kids' playground." Lestrade answered.

"Nice open space." Sherlock commented. "Are the press there?"

"Loads of them." Replied Lestrade. "Paps, film crews, the lot."

Sherlock grinned, grabbing his scarf from the back of the sofa. "Perfect. Let's go."

"You not taking your coat?" John asked as he pulled his on.

"Not this time."


	4. Bait

John sighed, watching as Sherlock continued to loiter around the outside edge of the crime scene. They had arrived more than half an hour ago, and Sherlock had spent just two minutes glancing around the area where the twenty-fourth victim had been found, before walking away to stand and watch the police at work.

"What are we doing here?" John asked with an impatient sigh.

"Waiting." Sherlock said simply. "Just waiting for the opportune moment to lay the bait. And here it is."

John watched, baffled, as Sherlock wandered aimlessly over towards the police cordons, where a news crew from the BBC had just started filming while a reporter commented on the latest in the series of attacks.

Sherlock seemed to be surveying the crime scene, standing just behind the reporter with his back to the press and quite clearly within the view of the camera. He beckoned Lestrade over with a wave, leaning down to whisper something into the Detective Inspector's ear, absently reaching behind him to lift the fabric of his shirt and scratch for a moment at the skin half way up his back. Lestrade looked confused for a moment, arguing briefly with the consulting detective, before rolling his eyes and nodding in reluctant agreement with whatever the request had been.

"What was that about?" John asked, walking over to join Sherlock once Lestrade had returned to the centre of crime scene.

Sherlock walked further down the line of reporters, standing, again with his back to them to survey the playground. "I asked him to arrange a press conference." He muttered quietly, once again reaching behind himself to scratch his back. "Under the guise of reassuring the public."

"And what is it really for?" John asked, following Sherlock's lead and whispering carefully.

Sherlock glanced across at his flatmate and smirked. "Laying the bait."

The press room at Scotland Yard was packed with reporters and television crews when John and Sherlock entered the room, standing to the side to watch the press conference.

"Remember." Sherlock said as Lestrade passed to give his reassurances to the press. "Whatever I do, make sure you address me by my first name, and don't cover your microphone under any circumstances."

Lestrade simply nodded, looking uncomfortable, before striding forwards and taking his seat next to Sergeant Donovan.

"Thank you very much." Lestrade said, glancing down at the notes on the desk in front of him. "Following today's incident, involving a violent sexual assault on a ten year old boy in North Acton, officers at Scotland Yard feel that it is necessary to reassure the public, and remind everybody of the importance of taking due care with children's safety at this time."

"The nature of the assaults, as well as the highly recognisable injuries left by the attacker have led us to the conclusion that these recent assaults are the latest in a long series of sexual assaults against young boys, the first of which occurred twenty-two years ago, on the 5th of January 1989. We ask that –"

Lestrade froze, looking up as Sherlock strode forwards to stand in front of him, leaning forwards over the desk to talk close to the Detective Inspector's face.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking anxiously at the television crews, journalists, and photographers hungrily taking in the whole scene. "What –"

"I think I've remembered something." Sherlock interrupted, scratching at his back again. "Something important."

"What?" Lestrade said again, gaping. "Right. Give me a minute. I'll be right with you."

Sherlock nodded, scratching once more at whatever was itching him with a look of irritation, before walking back to stand beside John.

John gaped up at his friend, his eyebrows raised, awaiting an explanation. "Er... what was that all about?"

"You'll see." Sherlock replied. "Come on. We may as well go wait in his office."

Lestrade strode angrily into his office, followed closely by a seething Anderson and Donovan.

"What the hell was that about, Freak?" Donovan demanded furiously. "You can't just saunter up and interrupt a press conference!"

"Sherlock." Lestrade added, not giving the taller man any opportunity to respond. "What are you thinking?"

"Oh think about it!" Sherlock shot back, standing up and pacing the room. "The most terrifying crime for any serial offender is always the first. Always wondering whether they've made a mistake; whether they've given themselves away. Our guy realised immediately after his first attack that he'd taken a massive risk."

"What risk?" Donovan asked.

"That was the only time he spoke!" Sherlock explained. "He had a distinctive voice. Very strong cockney accent, rough, like there was something stuck in his throat. He never spoke to any of his victims after that, because he realised his mistake. All that time he'll be worrying that that first kid could identify him by that voice!"

"Well?" Anderson drawled, leaning against the closed door with his arms folded across his chest. "How does that explain you sabotaging a press conference?"

"It wasn't sabotaged!" Sherlock snapped. "It was bait. That whole press conference was a trap."

"Oh God." Lestrade's face had gone ashen. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"I don't get it." John added, now thoroughly confused. "How was that a trap?"

"Think about it!" Sherlock shouted. "All these years it will have been nagging at the back of his mind. Did he make a mistake? And then today, he'll turn on his TV, and see me saying I've remembered something."

"Ok." John said slowly, trying to follow. "And how is that a trap?"

"Because for the bait I've shown him me working with the police." Sherlock explained, staring intently at John. "The bait, John. The bait in the trap. Something he won't be able to resist. For the bait, I've given him his first victim. I've given him me."


	5. A Nibble

John was confused.

"What?" He said, staring. "You're going to pose as a rape victim?"

Sherlock simply turned to glare at him. He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the door to the office bursting open, and Mycroft Holmes burst through the door.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, his ordinarily calm, controlled eyes alive with rare emotion. "What do you think you're doing?"

"My thoughts exactly." Lestrade commented, his arms crossed. "Sherlock, you're insane!"

"Ok, ok." John said. "Can someone please explain to me what exactly is going on?"

There was a brief hesitation, in which Lestrade and Mycroft looked questioningly at Sherlock, before, with a brief nod from the Consulting Detective, Lestrade began to explain.

"January 5th 1989 was my first proper case at the yard, once I'd moved beyond the typical traffic watching and walking the beat." He explained. "It was... horrific. This kid was found in a park in Kensington. He'd been raped. This was... even now it's one of the worst I've ever seen, and they'd carved the numbers zero-one into his back."

John nodded, glancing briefly at everybody else in the room. Mycroft had moved to sit on the chair behind Lestrade's desk, looking mildly nauseous, while Sherlock was staring blankly out of the window. Anderson and Donovan were both, like John, looking interested but confused.

"It was only the day before his tenth birthday." Lestrade continued. "But this kid was something else. He was weird, not doubt about that." Lestrade snorted slightly at this, glancing again at the Holmes brothers. "He was in shock, really spaced out, but every now and then he'd kind of snap back to himself and say something brilliant. Things about how the guy's clothes felt cheap, so he obviously wasn't well off, so couldn't live in a place like Kensington, but he smelt of gardening compost, so he either lived somewhere with a garden or worked in a garden centre or as a gardener. Bright as a button, you know, and, it turned out, just this guy's type."

"His type?" Donovan asked, her eyes looking slightly wary, her face pale.

"Beautiful kid." Lestrade clarified. "The kind you'd see playing the lead's kid in a film or something. All porcelain skin and dark curls. Bit of a cherub. He always goes for the same kind of kid. The same look."

"Ok." John said, breathing deeply. "And Sherlock's thinking of pretending to be this kid, right?"

"Oh, for the love of God, don't be thick, John!" Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at him. "Even Anderson will figure it out before you, at this rate. Think about it! Look at all the data! The fifth of January 1989 was the day before his tenth birthday! I was born on the sixth of January 1979! And in front of all the cameras today, I've been showing him proof of who I am!"

John stared, his eyes wide, the pieces slowly, reluctantly, falling together in his mind. "What proof?" He asked, praying to a god he had long since stopped believing in that he was wrong.

Sherlock turned his back, lifting the back of his shirt as he did.

Carved into the alabaster-white skin of his back, shining silver but clear against the already white canvas, were the numbers 01.

"Oh god." John muttered, staring, horrified, even after Sherlock had dropped his shirt. "I think I'm going to be sick."

There was silence in the room, as John, Anderson and Donovan absorbed the new information.

"And Lestrade?" Sherlock added, shattering the stillness. "If you ever describe me as a cherub again, I will fulfil all of Donovan's expectations and kill you myself. Violently."

"Anyway," Lestrade said, choosing to ignore Sherlock's threat. "Sherlock, you just can't go handing yourself on a plate to the man who abused and raped you! You just can't!"

"I can and I will!" Sherlock shouted. "If anyone has a right to catch this guy it's me! This case has been nagging at me for twenty-two years! I want it over and done with!"

"You think catching him will make it go away?" Lestrade replied. "This isn't just another case, Sherlock! Just catching him won't make you forget what he did!"

"No." John said, staring at Sherlock, his eyes wide with a sudden revelation. "But it will give him closure." Sherlock sat down on the edge of the desk, his eyes fixed on John, as though he couldn't believe that it was him of all people supporting his plan. "Maybe then he can start to move on."

Lestrade said nothing, just looking between Sherlock, John and Mycroft, rubbing at his face anxiously. "Alright!" He finally growled. "But you're working so closely with us on this one we're practically joined at the hip, you got that, Sherlock? You try to go off by yourself and the drugs bust won't be fake! We'll turn your place upside down until we find something. That clear?"

"Crystal." Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Now, are we done here? I think I can be excused a cigarette given how my week's been so far."

John stood and followed as Sherlock stalked out of the door. On his way out, he heard Mycroft's final comment.

"Marvellous. He's relapsing back to smoking. Should I make an appointment with the drug rehab and the eating disorder clinic now, or wait to see which he needs first?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked, as soon as they closed the door to 221b Baker Street.

"It wasn't relevant." Was Sherlock's reply. "There was no need to talk about it. And there still isn't."

John nodded, recognising the dismissal. "Should I order Chinese?"

"Not hungry."

John sighed and nodded again, cringing as Mycroft's quip about eating disorders echoed in his head.

"Can I borrow your laptop?" Sherlock asked, already lifting the lid on John's computer.

"You don't normally bother to ask." John commented.

"Well, you've had a bit of a shock." His flatmate replied as he typed in the password. "If I made you angry the rise in blood pressure would probably kill you."

John nodded, sitting down on the sofa and picking up the newspaper. He had barely glanced at the front page, however, when Sherlock swore, jumped to his feet, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, pacing in a small circle in front of the computer as he lit it.

"What's wrong?" John asked, standing up and waving a cloud of smoke from his face with a glare at Sherlock. The only reply he received was a vague towards the laptop before Sherlock disappeared behind another cloud of smoke as he sucked vigorously on his cigarette.

John glanced down at the screen and saw Sherlock's emails were open. "What is it?" He asked.

"A nibble." Sherlock replied. "He's taking the bait."

John stared, horrified, before looking down at the screen again in alarm.

One new message was open on the screen:

Leave it alone, Sherlock.


	6. Breaking

John sighed as he walked slowly down the stairs to the living room, listening carefully for any sign from his flatmate. It had been a week since Sherlock had received the email from the rapist, and John had found himself walking on eggshells ever since.

Every morning when he woke up, he would walk down the stairs to find Sherlock breaking in some new and disturbing way. Twice he had walked into the living room in the morning to find the detective sleeping on the couch, dried blood on his shirt-sleeve, new cuts decorating his arms. The previous morning he had been greeted by the smell of alcohol and the sight of Sherlock passed out on the sofa, his bandaged arm thrown over his eyes, blocking the light from the morning sun.

This morning, however, he found Sherlock sitting up on the sofa, peering closely at the veins in the crook of his elbow.

"What are you thinking of doing now?" John asked as he walked into the kitchen. "Those veins aren't a typical target area for cutting into, and you know I flushed the cocaine from under your bed after the last drugs bust."

"Not thinking of doing anything." Sherlock told him dully. "Just thinking."

"Of course." John replied, not convinced. "Tea? Breakfast?"

"Just tea for me." Sherlock responded, lighting a cigarette. "I had breakfast yesterday."

"Right." John muttered under his breath as he reached for the kettle. "Because that's exactly how the human body works."

"I might head down to Scotland Yard this morning." Sherlock announced. "Get an update from Lestrade."

"And how will this be any different from every other visit this week?" John enquired.

"I have to keep making an appearance." Said Sherlock. "He has to see that I've ignored his warning."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Sherlock?" John asked, sitting down on the sofa next to the detective. "I know you want to catch him, and I know it's important, but this is destroying you."

"Of course it's a good idea!" Sherlock snapped, leaping to his feet. "Don't you understand? This is the best chance we've had of catching him in twenty-two years!"

"I understand that." John argued. "But do you really want to catch him at the expense of your sanity?"

Sherlock snarled. "Forget the tea." He barked, marching towards the door. "I'm going to see Lestrade."

"Sherlock!" John called, watching his flatmate walk out of the flat. Sherlock, though, was already gone, and certainly not listening.

John sighed, picking his phone up off the coffee table and scrolling through his contacts thoughtfully. Doubts flew through his mind, wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing. His eyes fell on the overflowing ashtray, and the bloody scalpel lying on the table next to it, though, and he dialled, his mind made up.

"Mycroft?" He said, when his call was answered. "I think you should come over."

When John let Mycroft into the living room an hour later, he still hadn't decided what exactly he should say to the older Holmes brother. There was so much he needed his help with, but he had know idea where to start.

"Why don't you just tell me exactly what the problem is." Mycroft suggested, sitting down in John's chair and looking up at him, and giving the doctor the eerie feeling of just having had his mind read.

"Well..." John started, taking Sherlock's usual spot on the sofa. "I'm worried about Sherlock."

"I see." Mycroft said with a twirl of his ever-present umbrella. "May I enquire as to why?"

John hesitated, wondering how much he should divulge to Mycroft about his brother's recent problems, and whether or not Sherlock would consider this a gross, unforgivable breach of privacy and confidentiality.

"I assure you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft stated, seeing John's hesitation. "I am well aware of the behaviours recent events are likely to bring about in Sherlock, having witnessed most of them first-hand during his adolescence. As such, I find it highly unlikely that anything you need to tell me will come as a great surprise. I do, however, consider it necessary that I be made aware of just how concerned I should be."

"He's been cutting himself." John blurted out, suddenly overwhelmed by a need to get his concerns and frustrations off his chest. "Daily, at least. He smokes like a chimney, and barely eats. When he does eat, more often than not he'll vomit it straight back up. He barely talks at all, and the other night he drank until he just passed out. I know I'm a doctor and should know how to handle things like this but... it's just... I can't..." He paused for a moment, staring at Mycroft. "It's Sherlock."

"It is often the case," Mycroft commented slowly, "that all the training and education in the world can mean next to nothing when it is somebody you care deeply about who is suffering."

John gaped, stunned by the other man's unexpected words of comfort.

"So." Mycroft continued. "He has reverted back to smoking and self-injury. I am unsurprised that he doesn't speak much. Sherlock didn't speak at all for over a year after he was raped as a boy. Now, I must ask. Has he been taking any drugs?"

"No." John assured him. "I don't think so. I'm pretty sure he hasn't. I think it's been on his mind, though. I found him staring at the veins in his arm, when I came down this morning. Like he was studying them."

Mycroft nodded, thinking for a moment before standing up.

"I must ask that you continue to monitor the situation." He said to John. "I must return to the office, where I can watch all CCTV near to areas where Sherlock is likely to go if he wishes to acquire drugs." John nodded, walking Mycroft to the door while he continued. "At the moment, it is only the return of the bulimic and anorexic tendencies which concern me. If possible, monitor his heart rate closely. After years of drug abuse and eating disorders, you can imagine the damage he has already inflicted on his heart. I will send a package of supplements to minimise damage caused by any electrolyte imbalance, and I must ask that you try to keep him hydrated."

"Sure." John said when they reached Mycroft's car. "I'll stock up on the mineral water and energy drinks he likes. And if the worst comes to the worst, I don't think he's physically capable of refusing tea when it's offered." He hesitated again, before speaking his next thought. "You helped him through all of this last time, didn't you?"

Mycroft looked at John, smiling slightly in approval. "When Sherlock was a teenager, I was the only one who knew about these problems." He said softly. "Mummy was always so concerned about Sherlock anyway. He was her little boy, beautiful and undeniably a genius, but marred by the stigma of Asperger's. When he was very small, Sherlock used to believe I could protect him from anything, and he rather resented it when I failed him. When I discovered his cutting and his eating disorders, I knew that to inform anybody else of what I had discovered would have constituted a final betrayal to Sherlock. I learned very quickly when to give Sherlock space to work through his own problems, and when to intervene, and he learned to come to me to dress his wounds and provide him with everything I could to prevent long-term damage to his body and mind. He never stopped resenting me, though, for that fatal failure in my duty to protect him." Mycroft sighed, nodding goodbye at John. "Maybe, one day, I will have done enough to earn my redemption, in his eyes."

John watched, stunned by the sadness and self-recrimination he had seen in Mycroft's eyes. The families were the unseen victims, he found himself thinking sadly. They never stopped blaming themselves for what had happened; never stopped wondering if they could have done something to stop it.

Turning with a sigh, John raised his eyes to look up at 221b Baker Street, before walking inside to wait for Sherlock.

Sherlock lit a cigarette as he stepped out of Scotland Yard, blowing the first breath of smoke angrily out before he had fully inhaled it. The lack of progress they were making on this case was frustrating, and the desire for it all to be over was clawing at his insides like an angry beast.

Despite his daily visits to Scotland Yard, there had been no further contact from the – his – rapist. It seemed like all they could do was wait for the next attack, and hope for new leads at the cost of yet another victim's innocence and childhood.

Snarling, Sherlock cut into an alley, intending to walk back to Baker Street while he attempted to clear his head and think over the facts of the case again. He barely had time to register the sound of footsteps behind him, however, before his mind suddenly exploded with the force of a vicious blow to the back of his head, and the world around him faded into blackness.


	7. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - This chapter describes rape.

The world came swimming back to Sherlock extremely slowly and with notable reluctance. He could hear the sounds of another person breathing and pacing, the noise pounding into his brain with almost as much force as the original blow. After taking a moment to adjust to the pain of his head injury and the sudden influx of noise, smell and sensation, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and considered his surroundings.

He was lying, face-down, on a bare mattress, his hands cuffed to a pipe on the wall above his head. There were no windows in the room, and, craning his head to look over his shoulder, Sherlock was able to see that he was in an ordinary domestic garage, with a plain brown wooden door leading into the main house. Once he was fully aware of his surroundings, the reality of his own state hit him.

He was naked, and apparently had been for some time, if the abrasions on his wrists from the cold, metal handcuffs were anything to go by. A brief moment of panic flooded through Sherlock's veins, but this was quickly quashed when a quick clench of muscles assured him that, so far, at least, he had not been subjected to any sexual assault. Groaning with a combination of relief and concern over what he would face now that he was awake, Sherlock peered over his other shoulder at his pacing abductor.

"Something tells me this isn't Mycroft kidnapping me for my own good."

There was a snort from the corner, and the other man walked over to crouch down next to Sherlock's head. He was a stocky man, roughly the same build as Mycroft, but completely bald. Even his eyebrows had been waxed off. He was wearing plain blue jeans with a white t-shirt, and smiled softly down at Sherlock.

"I don't know who Mycroft is, but this really isn't for your own good." He said, stroking Sherlock's hair gently, ignoring the detective's violent flinch.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, glaring angrily.

"Victor Trevor." Was the reply. "I tried to tell you to leave it alone, Sherlock, but I guess that was never going to happen."

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered, biting back against the wave of nausea that spread through his body. "What do you want now?"

Victor smiled, looking closely at Sherlock. "I was going to just kill you." He said softly. "But now... I just can't."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"I never forgot you." Victor told him. "You really were the most beautiful little boy I'd ever seen. With all other beautiful children, that beauty fades by the time they become adults. They lose their innocent, angelic quality. But you... you're still so beautiful."

Sherlock fought down the urge to whimper. It was painfully clear, now, what this man planned to do.

"Why?" He asked, cringing at how weak and vulnerable his voice sounded. "Aren't I a bit old for you?"

"No." Victor responded simply, reaching forward to run a hand down Sherlock's back.

Sherlock thrashed angrily as Victor lowered himself to straddle his lower back, kicking his legs violently and ineffectively in an attempt to throw off the larger man. The world around him seemed to fade to nothing but the pressure of the man on his back and the urgent need to throw him off, and Sherlock choked, bile rising in his throat as he heard the ominous sounds of jeans being unzipped and a condom wrapped being torn open.

"Stop!" He shouted as Victor grabbed his hips roughly. "Just fucking stop!"

And, suddenly, it was too late. The pain of Trevor's violent entry with no preparation at all made Sherlock feel as though he was being torn in half, and every nerve in his body seemed to spark and burn in protest. He thrashed even more violently, trying to force the horrendous violation from his body. Every movement from Victor burned even more than the last, made even worse by Sherlock's desperate attempts to get away, and, suddenly, with a feeling of brokenness he hadn't experienced since he was nine years old, Sherlock was tired.

Sherlock's body went limp, all futile attempts to fight drained from him. He turned his head to bury his face in the flesh of his own arm, and, through the numbness that was slowly filling his mind and body, he was stunned to feel warm, wet tears on his skin. While he could still feel the pain, it didn't seem to be registering in his mind with the same intensity. Everything around him felt fuzzy, like he was experiencing everything through a layer of cotton wool, or clouded glass, or a dose of morphine.

He was so tired; tired of fighting, tired of hurting. All he wanted was for this to be over. He was fairly sure that Trevor planned to kill him once this was over, but suddenly, that didn't seem so bad. Sherlock had never been afraid of death – how could a person be afraid of a state which you experienced nothing? Being afraid of nothing was ridiculous. And, while Sherlock would have liked to keep on living, experience as much as possible of this world, death, and the nothingness that went with it, seemed infinitely better than living with this for the rest of his life. He no longer had the excuse that he was just a child, that there was nothing he could do against a grown man. Now, he was a grown man. He should have been able to fight him, should have been clever enough to find a way out, should have... should have been able to do something.

Out of nowhere, John's face flashed in Sherlock's mind. John. John would help him. John had to help him. That was what John did. But... no. Sherlock didn't want John to see him like this. As much as he had scorned him for it, Sherlock wanted John to look at him with admiration in his eyes and see a hero. If John came for him now, if John saw him letting Victor Trevor do this to him, then he would never look at him and see a hero again. He would always see a pathetic, weak, crying victim.

And then, Sherlock knew who he wanted to save him.

"Mycroft." He whimpered weakly into his arm. He wanted his brother to come and save him. Just like when they were children, when Sherlock was six years old and one of the boys from two years above him in school pushed him down and made his knee bleed, and Sherlock had looked up and seen Mycroft striding over, his eyes blazing, furious at whoever had hurt his brother. Just like then, all those years ago, when Sherlock had been crying on the ground, clutching at his bleeding knee, all he wanted in the world at this moment, when the pain was so much worse, so much deeper than that... all he wanted was his big brother.

Victor finished just as quickly and suddenly as he had started. One particularly vicious move, his teeth sinking sharply into Sherlock's bare shoulder, and it was over. He simply lay there for a moment, panting into Sherlock's ear, the smell of his breath flooding his victim's senses, making him wretch, until, finally, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up.

Sherlock listened numbly to the sound of Trevor zipping up his jeans. He heard him grab something from the floor, walk back over to Sherlock, and crouch down beside him. And then, he felt it. In the middle of his back, above the white scars forming the numbers 01, Sherlock felt Victor Trevor carving his next number.

"Well done, Sherlock." Trevor said happily while he worked. "You're my quarter-century."

"That's great." Sherlock choked roughly, spitting out the vomit that had found it's way from his throat to his mouth. "What does this mean, then? I'll see you again for the fiftieth?"

"Not likely." Trevor laughed, standing up once he had finished the last stroke of the '25 with a flourish. "I've looked you up. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. I was always going to kill you, once we were finished."

Sherlock listened, hearing the click of a gun's safety being flicked off. He looked up, watching as Trevor aimed the gun at his head.

"Nice knowing you, lover." Trevor whispered.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and his ears exploded with the crack of a gunshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow. This chapter was SO hard to write. It made me cry so much, especially writing about Sherlock wishing for his big brother. Hope you... well... may be the wrong word, but I hope you liked.


	8. Redemption

Chapter 8 – Redemption

Sherlock lay as still as he could, eyes clenched closed, waiting for the bullet to hit. Any second now, the bullet would hit is head, and his life would be over.

Seconds ticked by in his head, and still Sherlock waited. Time seemed to run unnaturally slowly when waiting for death. He had heard the sound of the gunshot, seen Victor Trevor aiming the gun unerringly at his head, surely the bullet should have reached him by now?

And then he heard it. Somewhere to his right, Sherlock could hear somebody screaming. There were footsteps racing across the concrete floor, and then somebody grasped his shoulder.

Sherlock thrashed, desperately fighting to get away from those grabbing hands. He didn't want to, not again. This was meant to be over, he should have been dead by now.

Mycroft. Why wasn't Mycroft here? Sherlock tried calling his brother's name, not even bothered by the begging, pleading tone his voice had taken.

"Mycroft!" Another voice broke through the din in Sherlock's head. "Mycroft, get over here!"

Then, finally, those hands left his shoulders, and another voice joined the first.

"Is he alright?"

"Really, really no." The first voice responded. "He was calling for you. I need to find the key to the cuffs."

Out of nowhere, somebody grasped his face with cool hands, and turned his head to face them.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, open your eyes."

Sherlock hesitated, wondering who he would see when he looked. That voice was so familiar, yet the panic and fear he heard in it seemed wrong somehow. Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiled tightly, slipping his jacket from his own shoulders and draping it carefully over Sherlock, covering his hips and buttocks but carefully avoiding contact with the numbers carved deeply into his back.

"That's right, Sherlock." He said softly, running his hand through his brother's hair. "I'm here. I've got you now."

Suddenly, Sherlock tried to sit up, crying out when his movement was halted by the handcuffs still keeping him restrained.

"Doctor Watson is currently searching for the keys." Mycroft told him, rubbing his shoulders soothingly.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, staring into Mycroft's face with wide, panicked eyes.

"I just told you." Mycroft replied, looking concerned. "He's trying to find the keys for the handcuffs."

"No." Sherlock snapped, shaking his head angrily. "Not John. Him. Where is he?"

"Oh." Mycroft glanced to his right with disgust. "He's just over there. Doctor Watson shot him in the hand, and I knocked him unconscious. I should stay that way at least until the police arrive. I aimed the blow rather carefully to his temple."

Sherlock nodded, relaxing slightly.

"Mycroft?" He said quietly, peering up at his brother. "There's an axe in the corner by the garage door. Just get these things off me."

Mycroft nodded silently, standing up and walking to collect the axe.

"John?" He said, stopping by the doctor on his way back with the axe. "We can't wait. He wants his hands free now. I think it would be best if you did it."

John hesitated, but, as his eyes fell on the axe Mycroft was holding out to him, and noted the violent trembling in the other man's hands, he nodded, reaching out to take the axe.

John knelt beside Sherlock's head, watching as Mycroft slowly stepped over to Sherlock's other side and knelt down beside him.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said slowly. "We need you to keep your arms completely still." His eyes fell on his brother's hands. "You're shaking too much, though, so I'm going to have to press your arms down to minimise the movement. Ok?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, watching as Mycroft leaned forwards and pushed hard on his forearms, pressing them firmly into the mattress.

"Keep your eyes closed." John advised the detective while he stared intently at the chain between the two cuffs and steadied his grip on the axe's handle. "Just in case a bit of metal chips off when I hit it."

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, waiting for John to swing the axe. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, there was a sharp tug on his wrists and the crunch of the axe smashing through metal and into concrete, and Sherlock was free.

Sherlock sat up immediately, pulling Mycroft's jacket tightly around him, covering his nudity as much as possible.

"See if you can find his clothes, please. They must be here somewhere for his GPS to have led us here." Mycroft said to John, not taking his eyes off Sherlock's face. "If not, there must be a blanket or duvet somewhere in the house."

"No!" Sherlock barked, eyes wild. "My clothes or nothing at all. I can wait until the ambulance for a blanket."

"Sherlock." John said, looking anxious. "You need to cover up with something. You've been in here at least five hours. You must be freezing."

"I don't care!" Sherlock snarled. "I'll be fine with Mycroft's jacket. This is his house. I can't... I don't want anything of his touching me."

There was silence in the room for a moment, before Mycroft nodded his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, and John walked through the door and into the main house to search for Sherlock's clothes.

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for something to say to comfort him.

"I was thinking about you." Sherlock said before Mycroft had a chance to speak, a single tear trickling down his cheek. "While he was... I was thinking about that time when I was six and Robert Foreman pushed me over and I cut my knee. I still have a little scar from that, you know." Both Mycroft and Sherlock immediately, for just a second, glanced down at Sherlock's right knee, where, sure enough, a very faint white scar could still be seen. "I was thinking how I wanted you to save me again." Sherlock continued, staring straight ahead in the direction of the garage door opposite. "I just kept thinking 'where is Mycroft, I want my big brother'."

"Oh God." Mycroft gasped, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders and pulling him tightly against his chest. "God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. If we had realised what had happened sooner, or if we'd been faster searching for you... I should have protected you better. I should have saved you, but I failed again."

Sherlock pulled back slightly, peering up into Mycroft's face. "You did save me." He stated simply, before burying his face once again in his brother's chest. "For a couple of minutes there I wanted him to kill me." He continued, his voice muffled slightly. "But then, after you and John came... I thought I wanted to die, but then, when I was saved, I realised I was relieved I hadn't. I think I'd like to see what life's like without the question of who he is and how he got away with it hanging over me. Call it an experiment. See. You did save me. You saved me from dying and you saved me from wanting to die."

Mycroft, sighed, gently kissing the top of his brother's head, thinking that, perhaps, Sherlock could eventually be okay, and perhaps, finally, he had earned his redemption. He had just tightened his arms around Sherlock, when he heard his little brother mutter quietly, "You still need to lay off the Jammy Dodgers, though."


	9. First Aid

It took less than five minutes for a loud banging to echo through the garage, and a voice from the other side of the metal door to call out "Police! Open up!"

Lestrade. John thought with relief, placing Sherlock's long black coat into the crook of his left arm and rushing forward to open the door.

Lestrade stepped quickly into the garage as soon as the door was raised high enough for him to duck under. He was closely followed by Anderson and Donovan, while several officers outside started cordoning off the area with blue and white police tape.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, his eyes falling on Sherlock and Mycroft's huddled forms.

"Where's the ambulance?" John asked, ignoring the question.

"Still a few minutes away." Lestrade answered. "What happened?"

"John." Sherlock interrupted before John had a chance to answer. John turned around, stepping forward in concern. Sherlock was pulling awkwardly away from his brother, the little colour that had remained in his face rapidly draining away. "John... I'm bleeding."

"Your back?" John asked, crouching down in front of his flatmate, being careful not to touch him.

"Probably, but that's not what I'm talking about." Sherlock replied. John's heart sank as he watched Sherlock desperately avoiding eye contact and he quickly realised what his friend was talking about.

"Oh god." He muttered under his breath. "Ok, Sherlock, we need to check how bad the bleeding is. Now, you're completely free to say no, but I'd like to take a look and, if I have to, I'll need to use padding to minimise the bleed. Okay?"

Sherlock stared intently into John's face, before nodding silently. "What do I do?"

"Right." John said, feeling the doctor in him take over. "Donovan, go and see if you have a first aid kit in the police car. Sherlock, I need you to lie on your front while Mycroft comes and sits up by your head, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, slowly easing himself onto his front and lying flat while Mycroft quietly moved.

"I need to take this off you, Sherlock." John said, indicating Mycroft's jacket. At Sherlock's nod, John slowly peeled the jacket away, wincing as the fabric caught on the wounds on his friend's back.

John cringed as his eyes fell on the blood between Sherlock's legs. His inner thighs and buttocks were glistening red with blood, and, as John looked, he could see more trickling out.

"Oh my god." Donovan crouched down beside John and froze. "Has he been raped?"

"Yes." John replied, grabbing the first aid kit out of her hands. "I need your help."

"What do you need?" Donovan asked.

John passed her a sachet of saline solution, grabbing one for himself and tearing the corner off.

"Pour that onto a dressing and try to clean up his back." He said, grabbing a dressing from the kit and soaking it in saline. "Mycroft, you just keep talking to him."

John carefully cleaned the blood from between Sherlock's legs, listening carefully for any protests. Mycroft was talking quietly to his brother, gently stroking his hair while he whispered about memories from their shared childhood: their mother's yorkshire puddings and the time Sherlock had broken his leg falling from a tree after climbing up to examine a birds' nest.

"What now?" Donovan asked, throwing the empty saline packet into the first aid kit.

"Take the gauze and lay it in strips across the wounds." John told her as he tossed away the bloody dressing and grabbed another from the kit. "We haven't got anything big enough to bandage it properly, but do the best you can and then apply gentle pressure. There's a couple of deeper lines there that will probably need stitches, but mostly it should heal by itself."

Donovan nodded, looking away as John pressed a large rolled up wodge of gauze to the area between Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock visibly tensed, and the whispered conversation between the two brothers ground to an abrupt halt. John froze, pulling back and holding a hand up to Sally, telling her to stop.

"Sherlock?" John said. "It's okay. I'm just trying to stop the bleeding. Do you want us to stop?"

"No." Sherlock muttered. "I know what you're doing. It's just..."

"I know." John assured him. "Don't worry. It's a perfectly natural response."

"John." Sherlock commented, peering back over his shoulder. "I assure you, there isn't a single part of this that you can call normal. Just carry on."

John sighed, closing his eyes sadly, before nodding for Sally to continue.

The sound of sirens filled the area, and John stood up as two paramedics rushed over to Sherlock.

"What've we got?" The first paramedic asked, dropping down where John had previously been.

"Thirty year old male." John replied. "Anal rape, with considerable bleeding indicating internal lacerations. Large cuts to the back, below the shoulder blades – I think stitches will be needed in some areas. Also superficial lacerations around the wrists from metal handcuffs, and signs of emotional shock."

"Right." The paramedic said with a tense nod. "What about that guy over there."

John looked in the direction indicated, and saw Victor Trevor slowly regaining consciousness at Lestrade's feet.

"That's the man who did this." John said coldly. "Shot in the hand and whacked over the head with an umbrella. Call for a separate ambulance for him and just focus on Sherlock."

The paramedics both nodded, one walking away to talk into her radio, and John took a deep breath, standing back with Donovan and Lestrade and watching them work.


	10. Rebuilding

The next couple of hours passed by like a hazy dream for John. Sherlock was bundled quickly into the ambulance, and, after Mycroft threw the full weight of the British government behind his demands, both he and John accompanied the detective to the hospital, while Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson followed behind in a police car.

Sherlock spent the majority of the journey staring numbly into space, before finally passing out a few minutes before they arrived at the hospital. Upon arrival, he was wheeled quickly into surgery, where the internal damage would be repaired, and John found himself sitting in a chair outside the operating theatres with Mycroft, waiting silently for news.

An hour into their vigil, John looked up to see a primly dressed lady rushing down the corridor towards them, and Mycroft stood quickly to greet her.

"Mummy." He said in greeting, grasping her by the shoulder. "He's in surgery."

"What happened?" Sherlock's mother demanded, her eyes panicked. "Your assistant – Anthea or Beatrice or whatever she's calling herself today – telephoned me and said Sherlock was rushed into hospital."

Mycroft led his mother towards John. "Mummy, this is Dr John Watson. He's Sherlock's flatmate and doctor. He examined Sherlock's injuries at the scene, so he will be able to provide accurate information. Dr Watson, this is Sherlock's and my mother, Elizabeth Holmes. You are to give her all of the information. Hide nothing."

John stared. Mrs Holmes was a stern but kind looking woman, She was tall and slim – clearly Sherlock had inherited his height from her – with sharp blue eyes, currently wide with fear, and dark grey hair pulled back into a tight bun. How was John supposed to tell this woman that her youngest son had just – again – been brutally raped?

"Mycroft." John said, looking helplessly at the eldest Holmes brother. "Everything?"

"Everything." Mycroft confirmed firmly.

"Right." John said with a deep breath. "Mrs Holmes, why don't we go for a cup of strong tea in the cafeteria. It'll be at least another hour before Sherlock comes out of surgery, and you may as well be comfortable while I explain. Mycroft can wait here and phone me if there's any news."

Mycroft looked as though his was about to protest, but closed his mouth quickly at a look from John. This was the type of news John felt best sharing one-on-one, where he could more easily slip into 'doctor mode', rather than 'concerned flatmate and occasional lover mode'. Mrs Holmes followed her son's lead, and accompanied John down the corridor with a firm "Elizabeth, please" that reminded John so strongly of his second meeting with Sherlock that he felt his world briefly spin.

Ten minutes later, John was sitting opposite Elizabeth at a table in the cafeteria, both of them cradling hot mugs of tea, thinking desperately of what to say.

"Right." He began, bracing himself with a deep breath. "Recently, Sherlock has been investigating the recent sexual assaults against children, and he was aware immediately that the man responsible was the man who assaulted him as a child." At this, Elizabeth placed her head in her hands, closing her eyes sadly. "He decided to make the perpetrator aware that he was working with the police in an attempt to lure him in and catch him."

"Oh, Sherlock." Elizabeth sighed, rolling her eyes in frustration. "You stupid, stupid boy. What happened?"

John stared for a moment before continuing. "Tonight, Sherlock was abducted. He was restrained, he had the number twenty-five cut into his back, and he was raped. Trevor was going to execute him, but we arrived just in time. Or, you could say, too late."

Elizabeth stared, her lips pursed tightly and her eyes brimming with tears she desperately tried to hold in. "Thank you." She said after a moment. "For saving my son." She hesitated for a second before continuing. "How did you know where to find him?"

"Well." John said. "After our first case together, I set up a GPS tracker on Sherlock's phone, in case he ever disappeared. Once we realised what had happened, I traced the phone, and Mycroft and I went to find him."

"That's very clever of you, knowing Sherlock's tendency to put himself in danger." Elizabeth commented. "What's happening now?" She asked, taking a sip of her tea. "Why are they operating."

"After the assault, Sherlock had considerable internal injuries." John explained. "The brutality of the assault tore him inside. They will be cleaning and stitching up the injuries. As you can imagine, the location of the damage means there will be considerable risk of infection. The area will need to be thoroughly cleaned and stitched very carefully to minimise the risk."

"I see." Elizabeth said while John drank some of his tea. "How was he, when you found him? I mean, how did he seem in himself? Last time, it nearly broke him."

"He was up and down." John told her. "There were times when he was just staring into space, but then there were moments when he was more lucid. It was good that Mycroft was there. He just held him and talked to him, kept him grounded, stopped him going off in his own head, and kept him distracted while Sally and I administered first aid."

"They were so close when Sherlock was small." Elizabeth said, wiping away a tear that had escaped. "Sherlock idolised him. It can be difficult, raising a child with Asperger's."

"Asperger's?" John asked. "I never knew Sherlock had Asperger's."

"Well, it took them a while to decide on the diagnosis." Elizabeth told him. "It's mild Asperger's. Sometimes, very occasionally, he could almost seem like any other little boy, so they weren't sure whether it was Asperger's or sociopathic manipulation. It was very difficult. He used to get into such terrible rages, but Mycroft was always able to calm him. And then he was assaulted. Mycroft blamed himself for failing to protect him, and Sherlock resented him for the same reason. It was terribly upsetting to see how this monster had succeeded in destroying the close relationship my boys used to have."

"I can imagine." John said. "It must have felt like they were letting him win."

"It did." Elizabeth replied. "I wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened, but of course that wasn't possible."

John was prevented from replying by his phone ringing, and he quickly answered it.

"He's out of surgery." Mycroft said. "I've arranged a private room, and they're taking him through now. Lestrade and his two colleagues are here as well."

"Right." John said. "We'll be right there. Keep Lestrade and everyone out in the corridor when we get there. We don't want to overwhelm him when he wakes up."

John hung up the phone and looked at Elizabeth. "He's going into recovery now."

It took a while for Sherlock to wake up after his surgery, and even longer for him to become fully lucid. John, Mycroft and Elizabeth all tried to calm him when he panicked and thrashed during his drug-induced haze, but, though he calmed a little, they were never able to keep him fully relaxed. It seemed that, wherever in his mind the drugs had trapped him, he was constantly trying to fight off a vicious attack, and all three of them were all too aware of the nature of this attack.

Finally, after a further two hours of waiting and calming, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, before his eyes suddenly darkened, and he rolled over with a croaky "Oh, god."

"Sherlock?" John said, stepping forward carefully. "How're you feeling?"

"Thirsty." Sherlock mumbled, turning over again while John quickly poured a cup of water. "And like I want to die." Elizabeth gasped in the background while John helped Sherlock sip at his water. "I don't suppose any of that was just a dream?"

"I'm afraid not." John said sympathetically. Sherlock's eyes snapped to his face, and he suddenly assumed an angry glare.

"Don't you dare!" He snapped furiously. "Don't look at me like that!"

"Like what?" John asked, confused.

"Like I'm something to be pitied." Sherlock growled. "I'm not some kicked puppy rescued by the RS-fucking-PCA."

"I don't pity you, Sherlock." John said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stroking his hand soothingly through his friend's hair. "None of us do. I couldn't ever pity you. If anything, I'm... grieving. I'm grieving for you and what's been done to you."

"But John..." Sherlock said, sitting up and staring into John's face. "How can you even look at me? How can you ever want..."

"God, Sherlock, shut up." John interrupted, feeling his heart sink. "Sherlock, what happened has changed nothing between the two of us, okay? Absolutely nothing."

"Nothing?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing." John confirmed. "All that matters to me is that you're okay. We'll take things one step at a time. Just take our time until you're comfortable."

There was a sharp, deliberate cough from behind him, and John span around to see Mycroft nodding his head towards Elizabeth, his eyebrows raised and his expression clearly saying 'Should you really be talking about shagging my brother with his elderly mother in the room?'

"Sherlock." Elizabeth said, breaking the suddenly awkward silence and stepping forwards towards her son, closely followed by Mycroft. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, mother." Sherlock said calmly. "I'm still on some drugs so I'm not in much pain."

"I didn't mean that." Elizabeth said with a cool smile. "I meant how are you feeling in here and here?" She gently touched a finger to Sherlock's forehead and then to his chest above his heart, staring into his face, apparently trying to read his emotions.

"I..." Sherlock's gaze darted from his mother to Mycroft and back again, before he closed his eyes against their gazes. "Like my whole world just came crashing down around me."

Mycroft rushed forwards as his brother's resolve suddenly started to break in front of him. He perched on the edge of the bed and pulled Sherlock into his arms, rubbing his back soothingly as his little brother clung to his shirt and started to sob.

"Come on, Sherlock." Mycroft muttered quietly. "It'll be alright, I promise."

"How the can it be alright?" Sherlock demanded, tugging angrily on his fistful of Mycroft's shirt. "How the fuck can this ever be alright?"

"Well," Mycroft said. "Like you said. Your whole world has crashed around you. So, what do countries do when disasters like earthquakes cause their worlds to crash down? They rebuild."

"You think it's that simple?" Sherlock demanded, his face slightly less angry, but the tears still coming.

"It really is." Mycroft told him. "It's hard work, of course. But like John said, we'll take it one step at a time, and slowly rebuild your life. Maybe we can even rebuild it better than we did last time."

Sherlock was silent for several minutes after this, staring ahead while he tried to get himself under control. After a while, he mumbled something into Mycroft's chest.

"What was that, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, looking down at his brother.

"I said I need a cigarette." Sherlock replied, sitting up straight and pulling his blankets away from him.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said reproachfully. "You just came out of surgery. I find it highly unlikely that they'll let you go for a cigarette."

"They will." Sherlock replied with certainty. "You will go out there, wave your identification and threaten to extradite them to Guantanamo Bay to be waterboarded and trussed up by their toes if I can't go, before assuring them that John will be accompanying me, and that he is a doctor and so will be aware if any complications arise. And if that fails, I will simply go into one of my legendary rages, which I seem to recall once made my headmaster cry. I will scream and shout about how I have just been through a terribly traumatic experience and will discharge myself against medical advice before going to the Daily Mail with my story of how unsympathetic staff at this hospital are towards victims of violent sexual assaults if I don't get a cigarette. So, I believe you may want to talk to the nurse now."

Mycroft gaped, clearly weighing up everything Sherlock had said, before he nodded and turned towards the door. "Fine." He said. "But you are getting a blanket to go outside with. And a wheelchair."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest against the last requirement, but Mycroft was already gone.


	11. Returning

Sherlock's return to Baker Street was not, unfortunately, uneventful. He stepped slowly out of the taxi, grudgingly accepting the assistance offered by John and Mycroft, and walked with pained, uneven steps up the stairs to 221b.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed when she stepped out of her door and saw her injured tenant. "What's happened to you this time?"

"Nothing, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock replied calmly. "I was just raped."

Everybody froze. Even Mycroft appeared horrified, staring at Sherlock in shock.

"Oh, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson said sympathetically.

"Don't you dare!". Sherlock snarled. "Don't you dare pity me. It's nothing. My injuries aren't nearly as severe as all the times I've been shot or stabbed or beaten. The only reason this is seen as worse than those injuries is because of a stupid social view of it as a violation. Well it's not worse. I'm fine."

John went to open his mouth, although he had no idea what he could possibly say following that outburst, but was silenced by a look from Mycroft.

"Cup of tea?" John asked once they had got into the flat and Sherlock had sat down on the sofa next to his mother.

"Yes please, John." Elizabeth said when it became clear that nobody else was going to answer. "That would be very helpful."

John nodded and started making the tea, listening while Sherlock sat silently on the sofa with Mrs Hudson fussing over him and Mycroft and Elizabeth talking about nothing in particular.

"I shall, of course, deal with Victor Trevor immediately." Mycroft said as John returned to the lounge with the tea.

"No!". Sherlock said, so sharply and suddenly that he nearly startled John into dropping the tea.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft said quietly. "You can't expect me to just allow him to get away with what he did to you."

"Of course not." Sherlock said, looking highly uncomfortable. "And while I would like nothing more than to see you completely annihilate him, you must remember that there are twenty-three others who may well have a different view of what constitutes appropriate justice. They will need to see him stand trial for what he did to... them."

John's eyes met Mycroft's across the room, and he saw an identical look in the other man's face as he imagined could be seen in his.

John's heart felt tight and squeezed with both sympathy and pride, swelling warmly as he witnessed the most considerate, selfless, and purely good thing he had ever seen Sherlock do.

"After the trial," Sherlock went on to add, "I would not object if fellow inmates were to be informed of the nature of his crimes. Even within the criminal classes crimes of this nature against children are viewed as unforgiveable."

It took nearly three hours before John was able to convince Mycroft, Elizabeth, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson that he and Sherlock would be alright alone. Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom after less than half an hour, and John was eager to check that he was feeling okay.

"Sherlock?" He called, knocking gently on the door. "Sherlock, can I come in?"

There was no answer, though, and, after allowing Sherlock a few more seconds to respond, John carefully pushed open the door.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his arms outstretched, like a thin, porcelain crucifix.

"Sherlock?" John said hesitantly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock whispered breathily, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "I'm wonderful. Positively perky. Like the pig. Perky the pig."

John stepped closer, staring at Sherlock, taking in his short, rapid breaths and blown pupils.

"Christ, Sherlock." John cried angrily. "What the fuck? Have you taken something?"

"Might've." Sherlock replied with a smile. "That a problem?"

"I problem?" John echoed? "You shoot up on god-knows-what with Lestrade in the next room and you ask if that's a problem? Of course it's a bloody problem!"

"Why?" Sherlock demanded angrily, sitting up and glaring at John. "What the hell does my taking a little cocaine have to do with you or Lestrade? It's all well and good stepping in now with your pathetic little intervention, but you weren't so fast to step in when you could have stopped me being raped!"

John froze, staring at his lover... friend... flatmate. Did he really blame John for what happened? Did he really believe John hadn't been trying to find him? Didn't he realise it was tearing John apart wishing he could have got there sooner, before that monster had been able to hurt him.

"You know what, John?" Sherlock snarled, standing up and pulling on his coat. "I'm going out. Why don't you try talking to me when you're capable of being at least vaguely useful."

John stared, biting the inside of his mouth as he watched Sherlock storm past him and out of the flat. Taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, he pulled out his phone, determined to keep Sherlock safe, even if it was too little too late. Glancing down, he quickly wrote a text and pressed send:

SH high and stormed out. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he's safe. JW


	12. Two Talks

John walked slowly down the stairs towards the front door, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Guilt and fear was gnawing at his gut, but, despite this, he knew that he had to talk to somebody who knew what was going on and understood how Sherlock worked.

"Good evening, Mycroft." He said in greeting, holding the door open for the other man to step through. "Come on up. How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you, John." Mycroft said politely, following John up the stairs into 221b and sitting down on the sofa. "And yourself?"

John hesitated, staring into the elder Holmes' face. "Not so good, actually."

"I see." Mycroft said simply. "Why don't you have a seat and explain?"

John dropped heavily into his armchair and thought for a moment, before deciding to simply let it all out.

"It's Sherlock." He blurted, burying his face in his hands. "I don't know what to do."

"I take it his behaviour has worsened?" Mycroft probed.

"That's an understatement." John responded. "He disappears every morning and comes back in the middle of the night high as a kite. He won't talk at all, he barely eats. I just don't know how to cope with him anymore."

"I see." Mycroft said thoughtfully. "Has he given you a chance to talk to him?"

"God, no." John replied with a humourless laugh. "The last time he really spoke to me was more than a week ago. He just shouted; basically told me I had no right to interfere when I hadn't even been able to stop Trevor raping him. He told me not to talk to him unless I suddenly became useful."

Mycroft stared, taking this in, apparently shocked by his brother's behaviour. "I understand that anger is a natural reaction to such an event," he said slowly, "but I never even imagined that he would blame you of all people. He always trusted you completely."

"I know." John said roughly. "I'm just starting to wonder whether maybe my being here isn't such a good idea any more."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, clearly concerned. "Are you thinking of leaving?"

"I don't know!" John snapped. "It's just... He seems to be avoiding me, running off and getting high so that he doesn't even have to see me. It's like my being here is making it worse and..." John hesitated again, swallowing around a lump in his throat. "And he's breaking my heart."

Mycroft stared. "John." He said calmly, looking the doctor in the eye. "I'm not going to tell you whether you should stay or not, and I certainly wouldn't place any blame or hard feelings on you if you were to leave my brother. But you need to talk to Sherlock. If he won't talk to you face to face, wait until he has gone to bed, and then write him a letter, so that he will be sober when he reads it. Either way, you need to let him know what he is doing to you. I have never known Sherlock to really care about anybody, other than our mother, but I really believe that he loves you. You need to make him realise how much he is hurting you."

John swallowed and nodded slowly. "I'll try."

John sat down on the sofa, staring blankly at the skull on the mantlepiece opposite. It was nearly half past one in the morning, and Sherlock still hadn't come back.

A lump was once again building in John's throat as he thought over his current situation and Sherlock's actions since the rape. He knew that Sherlock needed help and support, but he couldn't help thinking that he just wasn't able to take any more.

A tear streaked down John's face, and once this one had escaped, he was suddenly unable to stop more breaking free. Giving in to the inevitable, John buried his face in his hands, and started to sob.

John was still sobbing half an hour later, when the door to the flat opened and Sherlock stepped through.

The detective froze on the threshold, his mouth falling open and his wide, bloodshot eyes clearly showing his blown pupils as he stared, shocked, at John.

"John..." he whispered, anguished, as he watched the other man wiping furiously at his face in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of his tears. "Oh God, John."

"Don't." John said, pulling himself to his feet.

Sherlock stepped forwards, reaching for the doctor. "John, I'm sorry." He said. "I didn't..."

"I said don't." John snapped, stepping out of Sherlock's reach. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"John." Sherlock said again, once again reaching forward.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "I seriously considered leaving you today, so I suggest you do as I say. If you still want to talk tomorrow, when you haven't got God knows how much cocaine flooding through you, then we'll talk. I will not have this conversation when you're high as a bloody commercial jet!"

Sherlock nodded, stepping aside to let John past, his pale, sad eyes following the other man all the way up the stairs.

When John came down the next morning, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock sitting at a clean kitchen table, two cups of steaming tea in front of him.

"This isn't something you can just fix by just cleaning up a bit and making tea." John said, sitting down and taking the cup Sherlock pushed towards him.

"I know." Sherlock said, taking a small sip from his own cup.

"You've been killing me." John said bluntly. "Every single day you've blamed me and refused to speak to me and gone out to get out of your mind on drugs you've been chipping away at me."

"I know." Sherlock said again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise. I didn't even think about how it was affecting you."

"You're right, you didn't think." John told him. "Sherlock, this has to stop."

"I know." Sherlock replied. "I just don't know..." he hesitated, gulping down great heaving lungfuls of air. "All I can think about is what he did to me. I keep reliving it over and over again in my head, and I don't know how to make it go away. It's like it's happening again and again, all day, every day. The cocaine's the only thing I've ever known that works. It makes everything else so much clearer, so much more real. It makes the world so much more real, and I'm not drowning in my own head anymore." He stopped, tears starting to stream down his cheeks.

"Sherlock, you need to talk to somebody about this." John said simply. "If you talk to somebody, you'll be pulling it all out of your head and sharing it with someone else. It won't all be bottled up in your head."

"I can't talk to some therapist." Sherlock protested, swiping angrily at the tears on his face.

"Then talk to me." John told him. "Or Mycroft, or Mrs Hudson. Anyone. Don't just shut us all out. You need to tell us how you're feeling, so that we can help."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes again as more tears fell.

"I'll get clean again, John, I promise." He said determinedly. "Just please don't leave. Please. I can't do this on my own this time."

John leapt from his seat and crouched down next to Sherlock, pulling his friend into his arms and his body shook with desperate sobs.

"Sherlock, you will never be alone." He promised, kissing his hair. "I'm not going anywhere. There are so many people who would do anything to help you through this - me, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, hell, even Donovan. We all love you so much, and we just want to see you better, and happy, and healthy."

"I don't think Donovan could ever claim to love me." Sherlock mumbled with a muffled, teary laugh.

"Oh, she wouldn't admit it." John admitted with a smile. "But she does. Even Anderson does. They may call you a freak, but you're their freak, and nobody's allowed to hurt their freak."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, peering at John with rare vulnerability and total lack of self-confidence in his face.

"Really." John said. "I've never seen Anderson so furious; not even that first night at Lauriston Gardens when you outed him as an adulterer to everyone within hearing distance. Hell, Sally had to be pulled out of the interview when he was brought in. She was going to murder the bastard."

"It won't be easy." Sherlock said, suddenly serious. "Me getting clean. Last time, I just made Lestrade lock me in a police cell. I was very violent. Completely destroyed everything in there. I even threw my dinner at Donovan on one particularly bad occasion. You may be better off just letting me do the same again."

"Not going to happen, you daft twit." John said, hugging Sherlock tightly again. "You'll be here, as comfortable as possible. And we'll all help."

Sherlock looked at John and, after a moment, gave a tiny nod. "Okay." He said with a deep breath. "Just not Mrs Hudson. She's got a hip."

John laughed and gently kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "No Mrs Hudson." He agreed with a smile. "Or her hip."

A/N: wow that was a difficult chapter to write. I really struggle to write someone talking even a little bit about what happened to them. It's something I was never able to put into words, so writing someone else doing it is just as hard. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Next chapter ASAP.


	13. Withdrawal

Sherlock began his detox from the cocaine immediately. After giving John specific and determined instructions not to leave him alone or let him out of the flat under any circumstances and to inform Mycroft of what he was doing, Sherlock threw himself down onto the sofa, wrapped tightly in his silk Harrod's bathrobe, and waited for the crash.

They didn't have to wait long for the symptoms to become noticeable. Within an hour, not long after Mycroft's arrival at Baker Street, Sherlock had taken to alternating between lying listlessly on the sofa, his face buried in his favourite Union Flag cushion, and restlessly pacing the room, rubbing his hands repeatedly through his hair in frantic frustration.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said. "Maybe you should consider doing this in a specialist clinic. I have several available to -"

"No!" Sherlock barked angrily, spinning around to glare at his brother. "I'm doing this at home. I just... I want..."

"We know." John said, standing up and leading Sherlock back to sit on the sofa. "But you can't."

Sherlock stared at John, searching his face. "I know." He sighed sadly, before rolling over and once again hiding his face in the cushion.

Things quietened down soon after this, as Sherlock fell asleep on the sofa, curled in on himself, his features, paler than usual, marred with a pained frown.

"He will get worse, you do realise." Mycroft told John quietly as the doctor walked him to the door. "Last time, he became very aggressive, sometimes viciously violent. The nausea and spasms mean he will require constant supervision, and I imagine the depression this time will be much more severe. If you change your mind about placing him in a private clinic, or if you require any assistance at all, please don't hesitate to contact me. Any time."

"Thank you, Mycroft." John said politely. "We won't change our minds about the clinic, but I will call if we need anything."

After seeing Mycroft out, John walked back into the living room and crouched down next to Sherlock. He watched as the other man rolled over onto his back and pulled his robe more tightly around him, cringing in his sleep as his weight fell on his injured back. John's eyes fell on Sherlock's wrists, where the lacerations from the handcuffs still stood out, angry and red against his pale skin.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Sherlock." John whispered, brushing a strand of sweaty hair away from his friend's forehead. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock slept almost continuously for two days after this, and John, unwilling to leave him alone, was forced to request a single mattress and sheet from Mycroft so that he could sleep on the floor in the living room. Sherlock's blunt refusal to leave the sofa unless it was to go to the bathroom had put paid to any ideas John had had that they could share Sherlock's bedroom.

On the morning of the third day, however, John was forced to face the fact that this had merely been the calm before the storm.

John was making tea and breakfast when Sherlock stumbled slowly into the kitchen. He was ghostly pale and shivering so much his whole body was vibrating with violent tremors.

"John." He whispered, staring desperately at the doctor. "John, I can't do this. I'm so cold." He stepped forwards, stumbling as he did.

John rushed towards him as Sherlock started to fall, toppling forwards towards the floor. He caught him under the armpits, hoisting him up and starting to drag him towards the living room.

"You can do this." He said firmly. "Let's just get you back to the sofa, and we'll see if we can warm you up."

John lowered Sherlock onto the sofa and dragged the duvet from the mattress on the floor to wrap around him. He hurried back to the kitchen and brought back the toast he had made for his own breakfast.

"I need you to eat this." He said, pushing the plate into Sherlock's trembling hands. "You haven't eaten for days."

Sherlock nodded, and John watched, horrified, as he grabbed an entire slice of toast and forced it into his mouth whole. He chewed for a minute, swallowed, and then did the same again with the second slice.

"Tea." He said, after swallowing the second piece of toast.

John stood quickly and walked into the kitchen, flicking the switch to reboil the kettle. A couple of minutes later, he walked back into the living room with a hot mug of tea, and promptly dropped it at his feet.

Sherlock was crouched on the floor in front of the sofa. He had pulled off his robe, and was now, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, clawing viciously at the scabs littering his arms.

"Jesus!" John cried, lurching forwards and dropping to his knees next to his flatmate. He pulled Sherlock's hands away, pinning them to his side as the detective fought and yelled to be released.

John glanced up at a piece of paper pinned to the fireplace. They had come up with a rota while Sherlock slept, so that, if John needed help, he only had to call and a team of two of their friends would come immediately. A quick glance at this rota told him that it was Donovan and Anderson's turn.

John quickly turned Sherlock onto his front, sitting on his flailing legs and pinning his arms behind his back with one hand as he reached into his own pocket for his mobile phone.

"Sergeant Donovan!" He cried, once his call was answered. "Get over here! Quick!"

Sherlock was still fighting when Sally and Anderson arrived. He had briefly succeeded in breaking one arm free, so John was now sporting a split lip, which throbbed viciously and bled whenever he moved his mouth.

"What's going on?" Sally asked as soon as she took in the scene in front of her. John was still straddling Sherlock's thighs, pinning the face-down detective's hands to the small of his back.

"He completely flipped." John told her. "He started tearing at his arms and then went berserk when I tried to stop him."

"What do you need us to do?" Anderson asked, throwing his coat onto John's chair.

"Just hold him down." John told her. "I need to get some stuff to deal with his arms."

John hurried into the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. When he returned to the lounge, Anderson was sitting on the floor with Sherlock sitting between his legs. He had his arms held tightly around the thinner man's waist, and each of his legs was wrapped over Sherlock's, effectively pinning them down. Sally was crouching in front of them, Sherlock's hands clutched tightly in her own while she whispered calmly to him.

"We all okay?" John asked, sitting down on the floor beside Sally and taking of of Sherlock's shaking hands in his own.

Sally nodded, smiling, and John started unpacking bandages from the box beside him.

"Sorry, John." Sherlock mumbled, peering at John through hooded eyes, his his head resting lazily against Anderson's shoulder. "I didn't - I hurt you."

"Yeah, a bit." John said with a sigh. "But it's okay. I get it."

He quickly wrapped a bandage around Sherlock's arm, dropping his hand and taking the other.

"This one isn't actually as bad." John commented as he wiped Sherlock's arm with an antiseptic wipe.

"John..." Sherlock said suddenly, sitting up sharply. "I don't feel good."

"What is it?" John asked, grabbing Sherlock's chin and peering into his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head gently, looked up into John's face, and then vomited into his lap.

Half an hour later, John came back into the room, freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, to see Sherlock lying on the mattress, with Anderson and Donovan kneeling over him.

"What's happened?" John asked.

"He started shaking." Sally told him, reaching out to try to hold Sherlock still. "Really badly."

John dropped down next to Anderson and pushed Sally's hands away with a muttered "Don't hold him down."

Sherlock was shaking with violent spasms, his whole body seizing up and rattling with tremors.

"Okay." John said, staring down at Sherlock. "All we can really do here is keep him comfortable. Mycroft and Lestrade should be here soon, but can one of you go and get the bin from the bathroom for me in case he throws up again."

Anderson jumped up and ran into the bathroom to get the bin, leaving Sally and John to take care of Sherlock. John carefully raised Sherlock's head and placed his pillow underneath it, smiling down at Sherlock and tried not to cringe at the way his pale face was filled with reluctant, embarrassed gratitude.

"It's okay, Sherlock." He whispered, gently stroking his sweaty hair and hearing the sounds of Mrs Hudson opening the front door, announcing the imminent arrival of Mycroft and Lestrade. "You're nearly through the worst of it now."

"What's going on?". Lestrade asked as he stepped through the door, surveying the scene in front of him.

"Muscle spasms have started." John replied. "We need to keep an eye on him in case he starts seizing but I think he's nearly through the worst."

"That sounds correct." Mycroft said. "The spasms were the last of the withdrawal symptoms he experienced last time he came off cocaine. I would estimate that they will last around a day."

"J-John." John's attention snapped back to Sherlock at the sound of his weak, stuttering voice. "Cold."

"Okay, Sherlock." John said, pulling his duvet over and covering Sherlock with it, right up to his chin. "Let's see if this helps."

Sherlock nodded gratefully, pulling the duvet further up into his face. After a moment, though, he let out a cry of pain, and held his hand out towards Mycroft, who simply nodded in understanding and knelt down beside his brother to take his hand.

The muscles in Sherlock's right hand had completely seized up, leaving him clutching the duvet in a stiff, painful, claw-like grip. John watched as Mycroft gently pulled Sherlock's fingers straight and started massaging the palm of his hand, easing the stiffness away from the muscles.

"Anything I can do?" Lestrade asked, watching the scene sadly.

"Er, yeah." John replied. "Can you just grab a bottle of lukozade and a straw from the kitchen for me?" Lestrade nodded, and walked into the kitchen, bringing the drink back and handing it to John.

"Sherlock?" John said, slipping the straw into the bottle and holding it in front of Sherlock's mouth. "Can you sip at this?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, taking the straw in his mouth and sipping slowly.

"Good." John said with a smile. "Just keep drinking like that."

It took more than an hour for Sherlock to finish the drink, but, when the bottle was finally empty, he smiled at John with a mumbled "Thanks", and watched as John threw the bottle in the bin.

"John?" He said after a moment. "It's not working. I'm still so cold."

"Okay." John said, pulling the duvet up and sliding under, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. "How about this? Is this better?"

Sherlock nodded, burrowing further into John's warmth and closing his eyes. John placed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, smiling up at Mycroft and Lestrade and just holding Sherlock as he drifted off to sleep.


	14. Trials and Tribulations

It took another two weeks before Sherlock felt really able to manage without the cocaine, but, eventually, he started returning to his old self, throwing acerbic comments at Anderson whenever he saw him and silently preening under John's praise whenever it came. He still hadn't taken any new cases since Trevor's assault, but John was hopeful that, once the whole affair was over, the detective would be able to start putting it all behind him and ease back into his ordinary life.

Any progress towards putting the rape behind them, though, was derailed seriously five weeks after Sherlock had been attacked, when Mycroft came to visit.

Sherlock stared as Mycroft lowered himself into John's chair, saying nothing, but clearly troubled.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up to peer at Mycroft.

Mycroft hesitated. "Are you absolutely certain you want Victor Trevor to stand trial?"

Sherlock stared. "You know I hate repeating myself, Mycroft." He said irritably. "So, what do you want?"

Mycroft glanced quickly at John before continuing. "They want you to give evidence in Trevor's trial." He explained grimly. "With your reputation as a detective and the fact that you are the oldest and only repeated victim, it is felt that your evidence will hold great weight."

The room was silent for a moment while Sherlock stared thoughtfully, the tips of his fingers pressed against his lips.

"Okay." He said after a moment. "That's fine."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward to peer intently at his brother. "There is absolutely no obligation on you at all, Sherlock. All you have to do is say the word and Victor Trevor will disappear."

"I said it's fine." Sherlock snapped. "Don't coddle me."

Mycroft watched Sherlock for a moment, apparently deep in thought, before standing with a sharp nod.

"Very well." He said. "The trial starts at 9am on Monday morning. I will send a car to collect you at eight o'clock."

Mycroft's car pulled up outside 221b Baker Street, as expected, at precisely 8am the following Monday. Sherlock had not spoken all morning, and was looking alarmingly pale as he climbed into the back seat ahead of John.

He was silent throughout the journey to the court, not responding to anybody until, upon arrival, they were greeted by Mycroft and Elizabeth, who immediately pulled her youngest son into a tight hug.

"You'll be fine." She said, smiling tightly.

Sherlock nodded, glancing briefly at Mycroft, before walking determinedly up the stairs and into the court. John, Mycroft and Elizabeth glanced nervously at each other, before following the consulting detective into the court.

Sherlock was not allowed into the court before giving evidence, so John left him in the waiting area with Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan, who were also being called as witnesses. He made his way into the crowded public gallery with Mycroft and Elizabeth, looking curiously at the many other people already in their seats. It looked as though all of the other victims had chosen to come to the trial, a crowd of young men aged between about thirty and twenty with their partners and families, and John couldn't help wincing as he saw three pale, scared looking young boys sitting curled up against their mothers. There was no sign of Stephen Matthews, but John offered a small smile of encouragement as he recognised the boy's mother sitting in a seat one away from the one he had saved for Sherlock.

The beginning of the trial was, in all honesty, rather dull. It was just a summary of the charges - forty-nine counts of sexual assault of a child under the age of thirteen, twenty-four counts of rape of a child under the age of thirteen, one count of rape, and one count of attempted murder - and the opening arguments from both the prosecution and the defence. Finally, though, it was time for witnesses to be questioned, and John was startled to hear that the first to be called was Sherlock.

John watched, his eyes filled with tears, as Sherlock told his story, and he looked away only once, when a collective gasp went through the gallery as it was revealed how Sherlock had used himself as bait in order to catch Trevor.

John felt pride well up inside him as Sherlock sat tall and proud throughout his testimony. His face was worryingly ashen the whole time, and there were moments when his voice cracked and faltered when describing the ordeals he had gone through both as a child and again just a few short weeks earlier. At these moments, his eyes would flick towards John, who smiled and nodded supportively, before he would swallow, take a deep breath and a sip of water, and continue.

Finally, after an hour of questions, the defence barrister informed the judge that he had no further questions, Sherlock was allowed to leave, and the judge called for a fifteen minute break.

John jumped up from his seat immediately, rushing out of the gallery and into the corridor. Once outside though, he froze, realizing that he had absolutely no idea where to find Sherlock. He turned to face Mycroft, who had followed him out, and frowned in confusion as the other man simply pointed silently towards the bathroom.

Sherlock was just coming out of a stall when John stepped into the bathroom, cringing as the smell of vomit hit him.

"You ok?" He asked, watching as Sherlock splashed water from the sink onto his face and washed his mouth out with a handful straight from the tap.

"I need a cigarette." Sherlock responded gruffly, his voice hoarse.

"Ok." John said, following as Sherlock walked towards the door.

John and Sherlock stepped out onto the steps outside the court together, and it took less then five seconds for Sherlock to light a cigarette.

"Better?" John asked, burying the wave of disapproval that always emerged when he saw Sherlock smoking.

"Much." Sherlock said simply. "That seemed to go on forever."

"You were brilliant." John told him. "Really, brilliant. I think that's the bravest thing I've seen you do."

Sherlock ignored him. They stood in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock puffing sullenly on his cigarette, until Mycroft stepped out of the doors, nodding to indicate that the trial was about to start again.

The trial lasted eight days altogether, eight days in which photographs of Sherlock's and other victims' injuries were shown to the court, Stephen Matthews appeared via a video link to give evidence, and Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan were required to describe in detail the scene they had face when they had found Sherlock after he was raped for the second time.

Eventually, though, all of the evidence was given, all of the witnesses had been questioned, and the jury left the court to consider the verdict.

Sherlock and John stood outside the court with Mycroft, Elizabeth, Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan while they waited for the verdict. John and Elizabeth wore matching looks of grudging acceptance as they watched Sherlock smoke his way through half a packet of cigarettes, while Lestrade stared longingly at the smoke curling out of Sherlock's mouth, chewing viciously at a whole packet of nicotine gum.

Luckily for Lestrade, it didn't take long for the jury to reach a decision, and they were called back into the court after just three quarters of an hour.

Sherlock sat between John and his mother in the court, each of them holding one of his hands tightly. Mycroft sat on Elizabeth's other side, looking uncharacteristically pale and nervous. They watched with the other victims and supporters as the foreman of the jury stood and read out the verdict.

It took a long time, as the judge asked for the verdict of each charge individually, but, eventually, after nearly an hour, the seventy-fifth verdict was handed down, and the trial was finally over. Victor Trevor was found guilty on all charges, and sentenced to life in prison.

The onslaught of noise from the gallery was overwhelming as some cheered and applauded the verdict, while others simply burst into relieved sobs. Sherlock was silent, though, and John, Mycroft and Elizabeth also remained quiet, watching carefully as he stared, wide eyed and white faced, at Victor Trevor as he was taken away.

John opened the door to 221b Baker Street slowly, waiting for Sherlock to close the front door before starting to walk up the stairs into their flat. He sighed deeply as he dropped down onto the sofa, staring at the blank television screen as he processed the day's events. It was over. Victor Trevor was going to prison, and he would never be coming out again.

"Are you ok?" He asked as Sherlock sat down next to him.

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied, staring at the skull on the mantelpiece. "Glad that's finished."

John nodded, still staring at the television. He opened his mouth to offer a cup of tea, but his words were stopped before they had formed when Sherlock suddenly launched himself across the sofa and started kissing him fiercely.

John froze for a moment, his eyes wide, before Sherlock pushed his tongue into his mouth, and he found himself kissing back.

They kissed for several minutes, John's hands moving from Sherlock's hair to stroke up and down his back and sides and back again, before Sherlock suddenly stilled, a startled gasp echoing through the otherwise silent room. He jumped to his feet, backing away from John in a panic, staring at him, horrified, his face ghostly white.

"Sherlock?" John asked, standing and watching the other man cautiously.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock blurted out, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration. "I tried… I thought I could, but I can't."

"It's ok." John said calmly, holding his hands up in an attempt to pacify Sherlock. "You don't have to do anything."

"It's not ok!" Sherlock snapped, growling irritably. "I thought I could just get it over with and that would be that."

"'Get it over with'?" John repeated, stunned. "Sherlock, sex shouldn't be something you just get over with!"

"I know that." Sherlock said. "But we used to be fine before all this happened. I thought if I just got the first time since him out of the way, I'd be alright and you'd be happy."

John gaped. "Jesus, Sherlock." He said, taking a deep breath. "Don't you get it? I bloody love you. I don't care if the only sex I get for the rest of my life comes from my own right hand and I end up wanking 'til my bits drop off. As long as you're safe and happy, I'm happy."

Sherlock watched John with wide eyes, his mouth set in a thin, confused little line. "You love me?" He said in a small, unsure voice.

"Yes." John told him firmly. "I love you, and you don't have to do anything you don't really, really want to do. We've got all the time in the world now. It's over."

Sherlock dropped himself back down onto the sofa, and, detecting an imminent breakdown, John sat down next to him, pulling him into a close embrace.

"It's really over, isn't it?" Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking with unshed tears.

"Yes." John confirmed as Sherlock began to cry. "It's over."

"What do I do now?" Sherlock asked, his whole body shaking as he started to sob.

John smiled, pressing a gently kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. "Now we try to put it behind us, and start to move on with our lives."


	15. Epilogue - On The Road

John woke up slowly, turning his head to place a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. It had been a month since the trial, and, while things were a long way from perfect, Sherlock was slowly starting to recover. There were still nights – far too many nights – when John would be woken by his partner's thrashing and crying through a nightmare, but these were becoming gradually less frequent. There were days where Sherlock would refuse to eat, or speak, or where John would come home to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, staring blankly into space with blood on his sleeves, or glaring at the loose floorboard in his bedroom, as if daring himself to open it and use whatever he found inside. As yet, though, John had never come home to find that Sherlock had given in to his cravings.

"Stop thinking." Sherlock mumbled, dragging John out of his musings. "It's very distracting."

"Sorry." John said with a smile. "Do you want breakfast?"

"Just toast." Sherlock replied, stretching as John climbed out of bed. "And coffee."

John wandered into the kitchen and started making breakfast while Sherlock showered. He flicked idly through the newspaper as he waited for the kettle to boil, dropping in onto the kitchen table when the toast popped.

He settled down at the table, blowing gently on the surface of his tea, and glanced towards the door, his brow furrowed. Sherlock was taking quite a while in the shower today. John wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling this meant something. He had just taken a sip of his tea – still too hot – when Sherlock walked into the room and silently slipped something into John's hand.

John glanced down and looked at the item in his hand. It was a packet of razor blades. He looked up at Sherlock questioningly.

"I didn't feel great when I woke up." Sherlock said bluntly as an explanation. "I'd prefer it if you looked after those for the day."

John nodded, smiling reassuringly at Sherlock. If he was honest, the relief he felt made him want to grin widely, perhaps even hug the other man, but he held himself firmly in check. This was the first time Sherlock had come to him for help when he was starting to feel bad. He normally kept everything bottled up, and it was up to John to notice too late that Sherlock was on the brink of breaking down.

"That's fine." John said, standing up and slipping the razor blades into his pocket as he heard the doorbell ring. "I'll get the door. You just eat your breakfast."

John opened the door and blinked in surprise at the sight of Lestrade waiting anxiously on their doorstep. The DI hadn't come to them with any cases since Sherlock had been raped, instead leaving the consulting detective to recover until he was told he was ready. John opened the door wider, stepping aside to let Lestrade in as he greeted him.

"Sorry to do this." Lestrade said as he stepped into the kitchen. "But it's the third case in a row, and we've hit nothing but dead ends. You don't have to, if you're not ready. It's totally up to you."

John looked at Sherlock, waiting with baited breath.

"Text me the address." Sherlock said, standing up with a wide smile. "We'll be right behind you."

John paid the cab driver and followed Sherlock onto the crime scene. They hadn't spoken at all during the journey, and John was aware that this could either be a brilliant step in the right direction or a truly terrible mistake. He looked up as a black Mercedes pulled up just outside the police tape, and nodded as Mycroft stepped out of the car, standing back and watching them walk towards the scene. He looked just as though he was feeling just as unsure as John felt.

Anderson was the first person they saw after arriving at the scene. He walked up to them as they stepped under the police tape and smiled weakly a them.

"Morning Sherlock. John." He said, turning to lead them towards the latest body. "It's just this way."

Sherlock tensed instantly, his eyes falling closed in dismay. He grew more and more wound up as they progressed through the scene, gritting his teeth as police officers fell silent and stared as soon as he stepped into view. John sighed deeply. He knew exactly which way this was going, and why it was going so badly. Before Victor Trevor had struck, Anderson had always treated Sherlock with unveiled dislike, while other officers went about their business without even acknowledging that they had noticed him. Now though, he was the centre of attention; they were openly staring at him, some with curiosity, others with concern, while Anderson was being uncharacteristically nice. All of it was making Sherlock more and more uncomfortable, making him hyperaware of what he was, what they all saw him as: a victim.

Sherlock glared as several officers approached him, asking him how he was feeling. The seventh time this happened, he whirled around, about to shout angrily at them all, when Sally Donovan appeared on the scene.

"Oi, Freak!" She called, stopping in front of Sherlock and John with her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here?"

John gaped, watching as she gave a split second glare at the officer who had so badly irritated Sherlock and the officer quickly scarpered in the other direction, her face white. Lestrade was standing behind Sally, his face filled with shock, stunned that she had addressed Sherlock like that upon his arrival at his first case back. He opened his mouth, as though he was going to reprimand her, when a gleeful smile suddenly appeared on Sherlock's face.

"I was invited, Sally." Sherlock said with a smirk, his eyes sparkling with warmth and mirth. "Since you're all too incompetent to do your own jobs, I have to do it for you."

"Well you know what I think, don't you, Freak." Sally said, glancing warmly at John in a way that told John she knew perfectly well that she was repeating the exchange from the first time she had met, and that Sherlock knew it too.

"Always, Sally." Sherlock retorted, striding past her with a smile. "Come along, John."

John hesitated. "Thanks, Sally." He said.

"Not a problem." She replied. "Bloody irritating pricks. He just wants to go back to how things were before. Treating him like he's a circus freak made of bloody glass isn't going to help. Now go. He'll go mental if you disappear."

John smiled, and, as he always did, followed Sherlock onto yet another crime scene.

It only took a day to solve the crime – the son of a prostitute murdering others of his mother's profession – and the next morning saw Sherlock and John walking down Ealing Broadway towards a Chinese restaurant Sherlock recommended.

They had just passed the tube station when the sound of someone calling Sherlock's name brought them to a halt. They turned around together, and John's mouth fell open in surprise when he saw Stephen Matthews, Trevor's 23rd victim, running towards them, closely followed by his nervous looking mother.

"Stephen." Sherlock said, peering down at the boy. He coughed awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "How are you?"

"I'm ok." Stephen said, staring up at Sherlock. "Getting better. Are you ok?"

Sherlock hesitated, glancing at John thoughtfully. "I'm getting better too." He said honestly with a small smile. "Not there yet, but definitely on the road to recovery."

~fin~


End file.
